


not your typical saviour

by Sa_kun



Series: the one with the unrelated crossovers [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Kidnapped Stiles, Rogue Hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sa_kun/pseuds/Sa_kun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets kidnapped by crazy hunters. It's super.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not your typical saviour

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't really know what to say about this. It's all very much what it says on the box. There are allusions to some pretty bad shit, but nothing is explicitly described. Stiles gets taken by hunters, the hunters aren't nice, Stiles gets saved and helps save someone else in turn, and that's that.
> 
> Also, I really like SPN/TW crossovers.

Stiles was going to die. It’d kill his dad, wreck his friends, and it’d suck because he was just a kid, just nineteen. So yeah, he had a penchant for trouble but he was running with werewolves in his spare time: trouble was part of the deal.

He’d just thought he’d die because a werewolf disembowelled him or something. Not because of this.

Not because there were crazy hunters out there even more trigger-happy than Kate had been – than Gerard had been.

“Where is your alpha?” they asked, again and again, and each time he wouldn’t answer – each time he _couldn’t_ answer because these guys were used to beating up monsters, not human kids who didn’t heal or recover in the blink of an eye.

There was blood in his eyes, in his nose and his mouth, and everything was hurting, screaming so bad, but he was tied to a fucking chair and he couldn’t get free because he was just a human kid.

\--

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, he just knew he needed to hold on a little longer so his pack could get here and bust him out.

Just a little longer.

\--

Stiles was sure he was hallucinating when the hunters in the room with him started cursing. There were gunshots, getting fewer and longer between by the second and the guys in front of him looked twitchy.

Nervous.

“Hey, boy, your pack of freaks don’t keep a lid on the howling, do they?”

Stiles stared, then he said, “Did you know that horses have really good memories and that they always remember where they saw something scary this one time and then they refuse to go there ever again?” Okay, so he slurred a lot and his tongue felt heavy and thick, but he got his words out.

Then the door opened and nothing happened. His captors – tormentors, monsters – looked at each other over their raised guns. One of them took a step towards the door, then kind of just crumpled? Like, he was a marionette and someone just cut his strings. Except when he fell, Stiles could see the hole in his head, the entryway of the bullet that had taken him out. So Stiles did the sensible thing: he shouted.

“Ten o’clock – _your_ _ten_ —”

The shot was silent this time, too, and the guy fell just as easily.

“Oh my god, just get me out of here, c’mon, I’ll do anything just get me out! There’s no one else in here, just, please, get me the fuck out of here!”

It still took a while before anyone entered. Stiles didn’t hear him come or see him until he was in the door. The guy wasn’t anyone he knew, wasn’t familiar or a police: he was dressed in jeans and plaid, had a gun raised and aimed more or less at Stiles and he looked angry.

Really, really angry.

“Oh god, please don’t kill me.”

“I’m not gonna kill you,” the guy said, putting his gun away. Stiles still flinched back when he came closer, a knife in his hand. The guy’s expression hardened, lips flat and pressed together. “Christo.”

Stiles gaped. “No way demons are real,” he blurted.

“Sorry.”

“Just get me out.”

The guy nodded again, then went for the manacles and the ropes holding Stiles tied to the chair, only to pull back and stare at him.

“What?” Stiles blinked. “No, no, you have to get me out—”

“Any idea why they’re using silver and wolfsbane to hold you in place, kid?”

“I’m not a werewolf,” Stiles cried. “Okay? I’m just stupid human Stiles and— They thought I was and they didn’t believe me – _look at me_! They heal, werewolves heal—”

“Hey, take it easy—”

“No! I’ve been stuck here— I’ve been— _Look at me_.”

The guy put a hand on Stiles’ cheek. “I see you, kid. I see you.”

“Just, take a picture. I won’t flare.”

“Okay,” the guy said. “You got a name?”

“Stiles.”

“Okay, Stiles, I’m Dean. Now, did these assholes say anything about keeping other people here?”

Stiles shook his head. “I saw other cells. When they brought me in, but they put me here and—” Stiles shut himself up, then took several deep breaths because if he didn’t then he’d panic and that’d be ugly and—

“Easy,” Dean said.

The ropes came off without problem, but the cuffs took longer. Dean held him back when he tried to move, though, and Stiles almost kicked out in panic. “Hey!” Dean snapped. “Sit still, dammit.”

Stiles sat and it was probably the hardest thing he’d done in his life. The door that had been closed at all times was open – _open_ – and the fucking hunters were dead. But he sat, and he let Dean move his legs, stretching and bending them until Stiles got the feeling back in them. He sat a little longer as Dean took the time to wrap bandages around the gash in his thigh, the ones on his arms, let Dean set his broken fingers and put butterfly bandaids on the cuts on his face.

“Do you hurt anywhere else?”

“My knees,” Stiles said. “My back. I can’t really breathe and I think I have a serious case of aconite poisoning going on.”

“Yeah.” Dean grimaced. “Fucking don’t get torture,” he muttered. “Hunting’s about two things. _This_ sure as hell ain’t one of them.”

“Then what is, huh? Killing? Maiming? Murdering?”

“Saving people and killing monsters. I’m fucked up, kid, you have no idea, but…” Dean shook his head. “C’mon, can you walk?”

Stiles grumbled, but he stood up so fast his head spun. Dean caught him by the shoulder, then held out a bottle of water. Stiles snatched it and drank. He drank too much too fast, but he was so thirsty, so—

“No, no, no, give it back—”

“Do you _like_ vomiting?” Stiles shook his head. Dean looked him over, then asked, “What’s your shoe size?”

“Uh,” Stiles said. His feet were like blocks of ice, socks and shoes long gone.

So, Stiles sat back down, even if he never stopped looking at the doorway while Dean hunted down a pair of boots more or less his size and two pairs of socks. Stiles did his best not to think about where they came from, just like he accepted the thick fleece jacket without question.

“You can walk out of here alone, stay here, or come with me,” Dean said. “But I’m not leaving until I find my brother.”

\--

They found Sam in the second-to-last cell.

“Finally,” he said, then Dean had him in a hug that competed with the Stilinski hug in terms of “best hug that ever hugged.” Stiles could relate.

“Didn’t I tell you not to go around baiting the crazy fucking hunters, man?!” Dean snapped.

“They were killing kids, Dean!”

“I don’t care!”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Of course I fucking mean that, Sammy! We’ve been down this road before and we both know how it ends.”

“Dean, _they were killing kids_. Innocent kids.”

“I told you to fucking wait for me, man.”

“I couldn’t, okay? I—”

Stiles backed out, but he didn’t move far. There was still one cell left. Dean’d tried to keep him from seeing what was in some of the others, tried to keep him from noticing the blood, smelling the decay of rotting bodies. Stiles wasn’t stupid: his dad was a cop and he ran with werewolves.

There hadn’t been any kids, though, so either Sam was wrong about that or the crazy-ass hunters hadn’t killed them here. Maybe they’d used the kids against their packs, as blackmail or motivation to do what they wanted.

There was just one cell left. Stiles hesitated, but then he slid the bolt free and pushed the door open. The cell was just as dark and dank as the others, but it wasn’t bloody. It was wet, yeah, miserable and fucking depressing.

“Oh my god,” Stiles said.

In the corner, the oldest kid glared and growled at him. She couldn’t have been older than eight – and yeah, maybe Stiles should be afraid but Derek’d been pretty clear on the whole “werewolves don’t shift all the way until puberty” spiel – and she wasn’t alone. There was another kid, younger and chubby, still a toddler, pale and terrified, and a baby.

“Oh my fucking god, I wanna kill them all myself,” Stiles said, then he walked closer.

The girl kept growling – a horrible, broken wet sound.

“My alpha told me you couldn’t shift, not yet.”

“You’re not wolf,” the girl said and she radiated suspicion.

“No, no, I’m not. Still pack, though. Do yours have humans?”

“Daddy,” she said.

“Mine, too. I mean, my dad’s human, too. What’s your name? I’m Stiles. Stilinski, but my pack is Hale.”

“Donna,” she eventually said.

“Hi, Donna. Who are your friends?”

“Don’t know. Babies don’t speak.”

Stiles nodded. “Can I come closer? I know I stink, but I promise I won’t hurt you and there are two guys in the room next door who’ll get us all out. They’re pretty badass.”

Donna glared at him. “Can I smell you?”

Stiles nodded. His body screamed at the movement, but he sat down next to her and let her stick her nose in his neck. “I don’t know how long I’ve been here, Donna. I’m not sure any scent’ll be left.”

“It is,” she said and the toddler came closer, nosing for the same scent Donna had found. Stiles helped by lifting the kid closer and none of them protested when he lifted the baby out of Donna’s arms. The warm, breathing, sleeping baby. Stiles could have cried.

“Were you taken together?”

Donna shook her head. “Big baby was already here.”

“Alone?”

Donna shook her head again and Stiles didn’t ask any more stupid questions. “Little baby came today,” she said anyway.

“Okay. Okay,” Stiles said. “Can you help me get up?”

So Donna helped Stiles get back on his feet, then stuck like a limpet to his leg. The toddler clung to his side, grip tight around his neck and the baby slept on in the crook of Stiles’ other arm.

“Pack, huh,” Dean said, eyeing them. Then he shook his head. “Fucking monsters,” he spat.

“They’re not—”

“He wasn’t talking about the kids,” Sam said, looking tired and pained and just as drained as Stiles felt.

“Oh.”

\--

“We need to call my dad is what we need to do,” Stiles said when they stepped outside.

“Why?”

“He’s the sheriff of Beacon Hills for one. For another? He knows about werewolves.”

So Dad came. There was some cursing, some wet eyes and a lot of hugging. He didn’t come alone, and Deaton and Ms McCall helped check them out, helped make sure the kids were as well as could be. Stiles just watched when Ms McCall wrestled Sam into letting her examine him as well, because that was just, yeah.

“So, is she—”

“Dude, she’s my best-friend’s mom,” Stiles protested, glaring at Dean.

Dean smirked. “So therefore she can’t be hot?” Stiles glared some more, but then Dean rolled his eyes and dropped the subject. “Interesting set-up you guys got going on here.”

Stiles sighed. “Yeah, well. We had some interesting years. Revenge killings, murder lizards a la kanima style, alpha packs, you name it. Until these crazy guys showed up it’d been quiet for almost a year, actually. But, uh, you really think humans are monsters?”

“I think everything can be a monster,” Dean said. “Some just choose not to be. Of course, not everything has that choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that a vengeful ghost only knows one thing and nothing but ganking it’ll stop it. Sometimes, monsters just get to be monsters.”

“Oh.” Stiles nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. We have hunters back home – local ones, we kind of have a deal with them – but before… Let’s just say they didn’t care about anything but killing. Kind of…”

“Kind of like these sons of bitches.”

“Yeah.” Stiles would have said more, asked more questions, but the toddler werewolf came running over. Stiles thought it was a boy, but he hadn’t checked to make sure. He was whining, this high-pitched noise that _hurt_ , and he climbed up Stiles like a champ and stuck his nose in Stiles’ neck. “Hey,” Stiles said. “What’s up, little guy? Deaton getting poky with his needles again, huh?”

“He misses the scent of pack,” Deaton supplied. He looked amused, which was never a good thing. “None of us smell enough like werewolf for him. I’m not surprised you do.”

“I don’t want to know,” Dad said. “I just came to say that we’re torching the place because this place is just going to turn into a nightmare of a crime scene if I have to call it in as it is.”

“Cover story?”

“Cover story,” Dad agreed, then looked at Dean. “I’m guessing you have quite the record, given the fake plates and illegal weaponry you keep in your car, not to mention what you did inside. Alone.”

“Name’s Winchester,” Dean said, grinning.

“Aw, crap,” Dad said, groaning. “You know what? I’m not even going to ask. Just get out of here before I call in the rest of my people.”

\--

When Stiles finally came home, when Derek’s house was finally in sight, it was in the backseat of a black muscle car with the soft tunes of Metallica in the background. He had a baby in his lap, a toddler on one side and a seven year old on the other.

Derek was waiting on the porch, of course, because that’s what creeper-wolves did, but he was tense and alert, and he was staring straight at Stiles.

“That’s the alpha?” Sam asked.

“Derek Hale, the one and only,” Stiles said. Then he added, “Hey, wolf-man, come help me out here before the baby werewolves chew me to pieces, seriously.”

Dean started to say something, but Derek’s sudden scowl made him shut his mouth. “Huh,” he said instead.

“They have good hearing,” Stiles said.

“We haven’t really had much to do with werewolves,” Sam said. He sounded sad. “As a rule, they keep to themselves and the only time we run into them is when they go rabid.”

Stiles didn’t answer, he just waited for Dean to park the car, then Derek was there, pulling the door open. The toddler more or less flew at him and Derek caught him more as reflex than anything. The look of surprise mixed with fear was interesting, though, and Stiles grinned as he painstakingly made it out of the car himself. Ms McCall had wrapped him up pretty good but he still hurt, his fingers and toes still tingled from the aconite, his cuts and bruises burned. The lump in his throat had maybe relaxed a little, but it was still there.

The toddler had his nose firmly pressed into the nook of Derek’s throat and didn’t look inclined to let go anytime soon. “Stiles,” Derek said.

“Hey, man,” Stiles said, then he clung to Derek as well, hugging him as close as he could. Stiles swore the toddler fucking purred. The baby remained asleep and Donna tucked herself into the embrace as best as she could. “Fucking hunters,” Stiles muttered.

“We’ve been helping your dad look—”

“I know. Dean said he’s been tracking them since Louisiana.”

“Dean?”

“Winchester,” Stiles added. Derek stiffened and pulled back. “He shot every single hunter in the head, man.”

“A hunter?” Derek looked at Dean over Stiles’ shoulder.

“What can I say? Bastards took my brother,” Dean said, that dark something that had been all around him when they’d been looking for Sam back in his voice. “Hell yes I shot them down.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://saandrae.tumblr.com).


End file.
